


Bess

by kingdavidbowie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossdressing, Eating Disorders, Gen, Mycroft is a beautiful royal person, agender Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-17 00:39:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3508655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingdavidbowie/pseuds/kingdavidbowie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mirror is a little chipped at the corners, and smudged in places, and isn’t the high-quality glass of his parents’ house’s master bathroom. </p><p>This does not prevent him from thinking very strongly that he feels like the Queen of England.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bess

i

He used to read Nancy Drew novels. Not because they were particularly engaging- it only took as long as the first subtle hint for Mycroft Holmes to figure out who stole the missing will, and, subsequently, just what the secret of the old clock was. Now, as he considers it, his brief obsession (which lasted only as long as it took it to finish number sixty-four; read, not long at all) might be attributed to the formulaic structure of the series. It's precisely what made it so easy to solve each quotidian puzzle- they all, as a rule, were alike.

They always started off in the same manner: with Nancy, George and Bess sitting together eating lunch. And Bess would be eating a piece of frosted cake, or some equally unhealthy dessert, and her cousin would make a joke about the diet that she had attempted to start just days earlier, the one that she was already giving up on because cake. George would say something akin to "No one calls me Georgia but my parents". And, some time after that, but never before, shit would start happening. The whole attempt-to-introduce-an-actually-original-plot thing. Carolyn Keene never quite succeeded.

He considers Bess Marvin as he is on his way back home, staring out the darkened window of an equally colorless car. It is an immensely idle thought, one that he allows himself to continue with only because he's gotten a good deal of work finished today, and has enough spare time, ostensibly, for a night off. Of course, something could happen. But tonight, nothing does. Maybe it's just the universe in randomized mode, or maybe it's Kismet, but, regardless of cause, it is facts that are spurned out as effects.

As always, facts.

"How's the diet?" Sherlock is incessantly asking, because he knows that it hits a nerve for his brother, but doesn't know how thick and expansive and touchy that nerve actually _is_. Mycroft, in turn, learns to deflect his brother's comments with a swift and pointed "Fine" before he moves on to another subject, or whatever they were actually talking about before the (nerve-hitting) interruption. It is a seamless segue from one topic to another, but it feels more like a hand-stitched wound than a smooth transition of a fabric. Of course, he never shows it.

As the unholy trinity, the antithesis of the golden trio of words runs through his head again, so does a wave of mental guilt and hopelessness, because _they do not help_ , those three spoken words. No, they make it worse, the shitty feeling that is so mired that there isn't a polite word for it; it is just _shitty_ because that's how it makes him feel inside. He looks down at his pale hands, his dark suit, and pictures the skin underneath it, and his mind juxtapositions the all-too familiar body underneath with that of his brother's naked one in the middle of _Buckingham Palace_. (He will always think of it in italics.) Another wave washes over, and he is sweating: revulsion.

He wonders if this was why Bess went on diets.

This is why- _this is why_ he doesn't think of such matters while at work. His mind, now, is mucked-up and impaired by said state; he might not even be able to solve a Nancy Drew right now. Not in less than ten minutes, at least. He has to steady himself, think of work and suits-but-not-what's-underneath- and the _Queen_ , in order to exit the car and step onto the pavement, the walk leading to his door. He is immaculate, if anyone was looking, or could see, if they did. It's more for his sake than theirs.

ii

He wouldn’t expect anyone else to, but he wonders if Sherlock notices the brief wavers in his coolly smiling facade. Of course, they both know the smiles are fake. It’s practically common knowledge, because even _John_ realizes. But there are certain words and phrases that will break through the bricks that are the mask _behind_ the mask, the deeper allegorical level of himself that only his brother, if anyone, is aware of. And he wonders if Sherlock even is.

He finds himself speculating on if it’s intentional, the daggers that his brother sends flying his way, the ones that always find their marks, or if they really are just the oblivious, snobbish quips that Sherlock ostensibly tosses out without a care as to where they land. He doesn’t think of asking. The two of them communicate, largely, via a mental chessboard that plays out as subtle gestures and gesticulations of bow versus violin and umbrella versus floor. When one of them has something to say, he doesn’t offer it up on a platter. He _implies_ it.

He wonders just how he might imply so lengthy a line of thought as the one currently occupying him without spoken words. He thinks of using Morse code, and smiles, just slightly.

This one is a _little_ sincere.

iii

He never ate sweets as a child, with the exception of holidays and the brief and rare instances in which he was attempting to impress upon others that he was an average child. Of course, he wasn’t. Compared to his brother, Mycroft was a well-spoken socialite of no possible comparison; compared to anyone else, he was a freak. But he’d rather be referred to as “the weird boy in the corner” than “that chubby one over there”. This has always been his preference, and it will never change, as far as he can pragmatically predict.

It wasn’t that he’d had such a strong distaste for sugar that he refused it. No- he loved and still does, secretly, adore the taste of sweetness on his tongue, of shoveling food past his lips faster than he ought to. It, peculiarly enough, makes him think of closeness. It’s strange, because he is antisocial and doesn’t _want_ friends. But, full, he feels something akin to having them in the form of internal warmth, and it’s comfortable, for once.

It’s because of this that he refuses the cake. The desire to eat is somehow potent enough that he associates the action with sin, in spite of his declared agnosticism in regards to a deity. So he eats- _ate_ ; this is him as a child, not him _now_ \- everything else. And somewhere along that line, he got heavy enough that his parents called him “chubby” for the first time since he was a baby.

They never quite got to forgetting that, and neither did he.

iv

Except one thing is a lie- sometimes, he takes the dessert. Tonight is one such night.

It happens along with the fuck-all-of-you mindset that settles around his head like a halo or a crown, once in a blue moon. He walks into his kitchen like he does now, considers it all, and clenches his fingers around the handle of his umbrella, and goes, “You know what? Screw the diet.” Metaphorically, anyway; he doesn’t actually address his house. It still sounds prim in his head, like anything that comes through his lips, but there is the ferocity of beasts behind his inner voice. And, with the umbrella leaning up against the table like a companion, he sits next to it and has a bowl of ice cream in front of him in minutes, thanks to a well-placed phone call.

The chocolate flavor that reaches his lips is blissful to the extent that he thinks of sex. The thought doesn’t go away as he consumes the rest of the bowl’s sugary contents, nor does he feel satisfied yet when he stands up from the table. He exchanges a glance with the umbrella, because that is what people without flatmates do, or, at least, what he does.

He is still on a sugar high of sorts, as unscientific a term as it is. At the moment, he doesn’t care. With drops of liquid chocolate still clinging to his lips, Mycroft is not weak but powerful.

Somehow, this leads him to the dress.

v

The store attendants don’t give him odd looks, but Mycroft knows it’s only because the size of his wallet is heartbreakingly obvious, if not from the fabric of the suit he’s still wearing from work, then from the sheer perfect fit of it. Or perhaps it’s the shoes. In any case, only one of them actually comes up to him as he’s sorting through the racks of a department store collection of women’s clothing at seven at night.

“Is there anything you’re looking for in particular?” the girl asks his shoulder, coming up behind him. Mycroft turns. The attendant’s hair is the color of painted Easter eggs, and he is mildly entranced by it. Of course, having spent a lifetime observing the habits of others, he is practised enough in social skills to answer without missing a beat. It’s the actual subject of the sentence that gives him pause, but only after he’s said it.

He holds up a dress he’s been looking at and goes, “Yes- something similar to this, but more… black.” He picks the color because it is comfortable, the color of cars and taxi cabs and, of course, his umbrella. Anything is better than yellow, especially this particular highlighter-esque shade that he’s holding up for the girl to view for herself.

A hint of a smile crosses her lips, at the thought of him in yellow, presumably. _Yes, it’s funny, because it’s atrocious, and we’re done laughing now-_

And she is. “Nice choice,” she says, and looks at the thing for one more moment before heading over to another rack. As she goes, Mycroft looks down at the yellow atrocity hanging from his fingers.

Okay, so it’s not an atrocity. Just the _yellow._ The dress is as prim and elegant as his own mind palace, silky enough to be his taste of expensive (although he’s not incredibly up-to-par with his knowledge on women’s clothing). Chiffon, maybe? It likely wouldn’t run past his knees. He has to press the side of a fist to his mouth to prevent himself from a raucous giggle when he starts comparing the dress to a pleated waterfall falling down around his thighs. It _really_ can’t be yellow.

Mycroft sighs.

He is contemplating the sign that proclaims this rack to be women’s dresses, on sale today. Of course they’re on sale; everything is, and it doesn’t mean anything is actually inexpensive. This is irrelevant, anyway, to him. But what makes the dress a woman’s? The color? The length? The fact that it’s pretty? If this were ancient Greece, they’d all be wearing togas, and it’d be normal. Here, Mycroft actually giving in to the indulgence that he usually hides- carefully, in specific places- is a rarity.

God, he hates diets right now. And masculinized cultures. He’d rather be a person than a man, or even a woman. Just a general… human _being_ , as inhuman as he is compared to the rest of his species. Is it really so much to ask? He ought to work on this.

Then the store attendant comes over with a different dress, and something inside his chest shifts, as if his being was composed not of flesh and bone but earthy tectonic plates and molten rock.

It is an accurate description.

“It’s not black,” she starts, but he silences her with a wave of his hand.

“It’s perfect,” he says. “Just as long as it fits.”

vi

The link between his rare bouts of food indulgences and rarer paroxysms of wearing dresses is unorthodox, perhaps, but very simple. They are both wrong in his mind, if only because he is impelled towards them so strongly, which _doesn’t help_ , because thoughts that strong are terrifying compared to, say, diplomatic meetings with Her Majesty’s high-end advisers. Yes, he has screwed-up priorities- this is _him_.

As much as he refuses to think of the childhood memories associated with both, they are stored, nonetheless, in the farthest and deepest depths of his mind. Once he dredges up one, the other usually follows.

He thinks of the bathroom mirror at his family’s house. It was wide and grand, and invariably smooth, and stainlessly clear. And he was twenty-two, back for holiday, and dressed up in a gown snatched from his mother’s closet. It was navy blue, like the sea, and it didn’t fit right, of course. The bust hung off his chest and the hips were too wide for his nonexistent ones (by this age, his body was nearly as nonexistent as Sherlock’s- never more so). But there was something on his face that it took him a moment to properly identify and consider.

A smile. No, but that wasn’t the right word; it was too fake, because they all were, weren’t they? A better word might be… a grin. A small one, yes, but he was grinning nonetheless, and he felt like a child and an evolved adult all at once. It didn’t fit, but the dress was still beautiful on him. He’d chosen it for the color.

His brother didn’t make a smart comment when he walked in (without knocking, because he never did). He just had a look on his face, like he was confused, and querying, and repulsed-

And he closed the door, and never opened it again.

vii

Now it’s a changing room mirror, and the door is locked, and his pastel-colored guardian angel is keeping guard outside like sentry. Or, well, she’s sorting through the pile of clothes to put back on the racks. Which also works.

The mirror is a little chipped at the corners, and smudged in places, and isn’t the high-quality glass of his parents’ house’s master bathroom.

This does not prevent him from thinking very strongly that he feels like the Queen of England.

Mycroft pulls the dress on like a shirt after unzipping it and then thinks, maybe he ought to have gone about it in a different way, but no matter- it temporarily obscures his vision, and he is immersed in chiffon. He emerges a new man, a new _person_ , and only takes a minute or so to figure out how to zip the thing up in the back.

It’s a dark swatch of royal purple, a V-neck that actually fits fairly decently. It’s the sleeves that he can’t help himself from mooning over; they are loops of purple, of the night sky, resting atop his shoulders like beautified, simplified epaulettes. Mycroft spares a glance at the fabric sweeping out from under the high waist of the dress, and thinks, _no, that’d be-_ beyond _childish_.

And then he spins around in place anyway, just once, and grins at the billowing skirt floating up around him. When he stops, almost falling, which nearly sets him off into quiet giggling again, the aubergine settles over his thighs with all the air and color of a Turner painting, like the Switzerland Reichenbach Falls themselves.

“You alright in there?” the store attendant calls out.

Mycroft undoes the lock and opens the door with all the unrestrained class in his heart. He steps into the hall and says, “I feel like a queen.” Not a princess- if it’s not too late for that, it seems like too childish of a sentiment, anyway. No, he is grand, and proud, and most definitely _queenly_.

When she smiles back without hesitation, he feels even more important.

viii

With the dress hung up in his closet- in its bag, it could be just another three-piece suit- he falls asleep late, relishing the comfort of his sheets even more in his weariness. He is not a walker or an exerciser in any sense of the words, which is probably part of why his weight has been steadily increasing for the past decade rather than settling at one set point. It’s an indulgence that he doesn’t think about, but it is one, nonetheless.

Sealing his doomed fate even further, he sets his alarm for an hour later, and then his consciousness falls off the face of the Earth.

ix

In the morning, he regrets this, instantly and without mercy for his still-bleary, waking mind. He is _late_ , he’ll have to rush to get dressed and fix his hair so it’s that perfect combination of grandeur and informality, but mostly the first (it’s more of a 9:1 ratio, really). He’ll have to call Anthea to have her bring the car around later but not too later; he doesn’t actually want to arrive late to a meeting with  _MI6-_

It is in this haphazard manner that he settles back into his usual routine and usual self. Within the hour, he is decked out in a three-piece suit and leather shoes and smoothly trading feigned smiles with the men sitting across from him at the table. He is immaculate, if anyone wanted to notice, with nary a hair out of place, except where he meant one to, for the sake of subtle informality.

He eats a light lunch at the Diogenes Club and only feels out of place for a brief moment, in which he feels the irrational urge to throw down his cucumber sandwich and run out the room because _he does not belong here-_

It is only a momentary thought, of course, and easily quelled.

This is why he doesn't do things like what happened last night, which he refuses to think of today except as the Unspeakable Thing. As an alternative, he sets his thoughts on the morning paper in front of him.

“God, you’ve got it all wrong; it was the _brother_ ,” he mumbles to the Scotland Yard as his eyes flash over the case featured on the front page.

Then, he winces and covers his mouth.

x

It’s a month later when he gets inside the car and Anthea has a box sitting next to her instead of an empty space for him. She gives Mycroft a nod, and he picks it up and sits, with the package in his lap, resting on his thighs, which are encased in a shell of tweed fabric. Pants. The box is the size of a shoebox, and the weight is an unfamiliar one. If anything, he isn’t holding onto a pair of dress shoes.

His assistant raises a pointed eyebrow.

“This is mine?” he asks, giving the box a less cursory look when she gives him a look of assent over her phone, the light of the Blackberry’s screen illuminating her ostensibly impassive features.

“It’s your birthday,” she points out, and sounds unsure as to whether or not he was actually aware of this.

“Of course it is,” he answers smoothly with another feigned smile, but all he’s thinking of is Nick Carraway going “I just remembered that today’s my birthday” smack in the middle of _The Great Gatsby_. Mycroft had known it was sometime around this week, which seems pretty decent an estimation for someone of his work habits.

His hands are trembling ever so slightly as they undo the paper the box is wrapped in, perhaps because they, at least, know what’s inside. They lift the lid, and his eyes take in the box’s contents, then start back up to meet Anthea’s.

“Anthea-”

He doesn’t know what to say. He hadn’t known that she’d _known_. But of course she does. For as much time as she spends with her gaze glued to her phone screen, she notices a good many things that other people don’t. It’s part of why he hired her.

She gives him a clue of a smile, and he just opens his mouth and closes it again, then settles for a polite nod. There are mountains of emotion behind that small gesture.

The shoes in the box are a deeper black than his umbrella and look like the sort of heels that Anthea herself wears, except they’re more… Mycroft. They have less of a heel but a thinner, primmer one. They are shiny and new, and they are doing strange things to the pattern of his heartbeat.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, and holds onto the box like it’s his only lifeline left, and thinks, _they would go really nicely with the dress._

And this is precisely where he begins.

**Author's Note:**

> Visual aids:  
> Dress: http://productshots0.modcloth.net/productshots/0136/6651/fbc2932f859c914037dbf4d132c8a307.jpg?1386181486  
> Color: http://www.art-paints.com/Paints/Acrylic/Americana/Royal-Purple/Royal-Purple.gif


End file.
